"Second, you’re missing a key stone in the arch. Of the five Crosses, aside from the one in Jaha Town, the other four have drunk power like sponges."

"There’s no need to feed in shabby Wasan Village, a cracked bowl by the road. It looks less like feeding, more like hiding a Cross under moss."

"And if a Cross really needed one last sip, he didn’t need theater. He could’ve reaped this village like wheat and left no whispers."

"This place is a backwater, smoke thin as thread. Few would know. No need to wear a saint’s mask over a wolf’s grin."

Hearing Lucimia lay it out, Desty felt the fog lift like dawn cutting clouds, and her chest loosened like a knot undone.

"Alright, that makes sense. I took things for granted. So what’s the masked man’s aim? Stop us at the hedgerow and strangle us outside the gate?"

"Maybe," Lucimia said, cool as moonlight on water. "But the same problem remains. His methods are green shoots, not steel."

"If he’s a believer of Ment, a guardian of the village Cross, his strength shouldn’t be this soft. At least Lev-level, like a mountain’s shadow."

"Then…?"

Lucimia shook her head like a willow in a mild wind. "No clue on his true aim. If he wants to bar us, he’ll have other plays on the board."

"He’s in shadow and we’re under a lantern. We wait for his move like fishermen watching still water."

"Come on. Back inside. Tonight the beasts shouldn’t show," she said, and dropped from the roof like a cat slipping off an eave.

"Oh—okay." Desty followed, quick as a sparrow after a leaf.

The night slid by like ink across paper. Roosters speared the dawn, and Lucimia opened her eyes into pale gold.

Desty sprawled over her like an octopus, limbs draped like ropes after rain, all her weight on Lucimia’s chest.

"What kind of sleeping form is that," Lucimia muttered, dry as a winter reed, peeling Desty off like vines from a fence and rising.

The motions tugged Desty awake. Her eyes were fogged like steamed glass, and her words sloshed. "D—drool… rising?"

Lucimia shot her a sidelong look, a blade of frost. "Swallow your drool before you talk."

"…" Desty wiped her mouth, sheepish as a wet puppy.

"Well? No beast attack last night?" Lucimia asked, voice level as a calm pond.

"None. Quiet as snow."

"Then we guessed right. The beasts are likely his puppets, strings tight as wire. He knows we’re inside, so he held them back."

"Mm… but something feels off," Desty said, cocooning in the quilt like a silkworm craving one more dream.

"What is it?" Lucimia’s tone stayed soft, like a hand on a kettle lid.

"The Fuzzy Orb by the door fed me its view. Villagers are drifting our way like a tide. Faces are storm-dark, a little… wrong."

"Huh? What’s going on? I’d better get up," Desty said, springing from bed like a hare and buckling on light armor like a second skin.

She’d lived with Lucimia long enough to take sudden squalls like weather, face steady as a boat’s keel.

Thud, thud, thud!!

Knocks pounded the wood like a drum before battle.

"Come out!" A man’s voice rasped like gravel in a bucket.

Lucimia and Desty traded a glance, a spark across steel. Lucimia sighed, a reed bending in wind. "I’ll get it. Feels like the masked man stirred the pot."

"Not sure if he’s one of the villagers," she added, voice flat as stone.

Desty nodded, palm on the longsword at her hip like a hawk on a perch, ready.

Creak—

The wooden door opened like a hinge in winter, and a press of villagers filled the frame like floodwater.

Lucimia guessed almost every youth in the village had come, their earlier pounding and shouting a storm that wasn’t natural.

At the front stood a man built like a boulder, muscles knotted like roots, scars crawling over him like old vines. He gripped a cleaver broad as a leaf.

"What is it? Why the parade?" Lucimia stood in the doorway, face calm as a lake, Magic Eye blooming like a cold star.

She swept the crowd like a hawk skimming fields, but no face wore the masked man’s shadow.

The leader saw her face unruffled before a sea of people, her gaze circling like a blade, her eyes shifting color like a storm sky.

A hint of a tiger fang peeped like a crescent. Fear pricked his heart like a thorn.

But he couldn’t retreat, even before a cliff. Even if they were stronger, justice had to be asked for like water from a well.

He drew two breaths, bellows in a forge, stepped forward, and spoke. "This morning we found the village cook dead. Was it you?"

"The cook? Dead?" Lucimia’s brow twitched, a shadow over snow.

Cook… the one Aili mentioned, the one who offered to send food. He’s dead? She had just tagged him as a suspected puppet of Ment, and now a knife cut the thread.

What is this?

Lucimia frowned, lines like ripples. "How did he die? When?"

Seeing her still acting calm, the big man snorted, a boar in brush. "Hmph. You Bloodkin still pretend. We treated you well, like guests by our fire."

"You promised not to harm villagers, yet you struck in the dark like a snake. Cook Maren even wanted to bring you food last night, and this is your answer?!"

His words climbed like flames, his cleaver hand trembling like a leaf. If he didn’t know he’d lose, the blade would’ve already fallen.

"Hold on. Why would we pretend? Why do you think Cook Maren’s death is on us?" Lucimia’s voice was cool rain.

"Hmph. Maren’s blood was drained dry, like a wineskin wrung out, with two holes on his neck like twin stars."

"Clearly something with sharp fangs bit him. There were no beast raids last night. Besides you, who else?!"

"Yeah, who else?!" voices rose like crows. "We welcomed you kindly. Why do this?" The crowd swelled like wind in grass.

Lucimia’s thoughts darkened like a cloudbank. Most likely, the masked man killed Maren, used some creature to drink him dry, and laid the blame like soot on her.

Push us to leave?

No beast raid last night—he was busy weaving this net.

But why? Why cut down the exact man she’d marked as a suspected puppet, not anyone else? The coincidence rang like a bell.

Is he helping me?

Then why frame me? If framing us to drive us out is a help, it means a coming danger, a flood behind the dam. The beast raids could’ve been to force a migration.

What danger next?

Rats and worms arriving like rot through grain.

But another snag: the beast raids started months ago, like drums in the distance. Nirael’s plan only locked in days ago, a knife freshly honed. The timing jars.

And in the forest earlier, he tried to kill us outright, like a trap of thorns. Without my magic, most would be mulch under a whole forest of beasts.

Below eighth-rank would drown like stones. Even an average eighth-rank would choke.

That doesn’t fit a helping hand.

So what is he doing? Lucimia’s resolve cooled like tempered steel. We must drag him into the light like a fish from deep water.

But first, settle the villagers, like calming waves with a steady oar.